These Dreams Will Haunt You
by Copycat
Summary: "I keep thinking about the future. Kids, park on Sundays. Real life. Something more than this. With her." Okay, Swarek, okay. You got it. Except no. Because it's me writing this story.


TITLE: These Dreams Will Haunt You  
AUTHOR: Copycat  
RATING: PG-13  
CLASSIFICATION: Romance, Angst, Complete Lack of Structure  
SPOILERS: Through 4x13

SUMMARY: "I keep thinking about the future. Kids, park on Sundays. Real life. Something more than this. With her." Okay, Swarek, okay. You got it. Except no. Because it's _me_ writing this story.

Things I'd like to say:

-Thank you to Mahtra for listening to me yapping for hours and for telling me that most of this makes sense. Sort of. Almost. And also for the ending. I changed that line for you. :)  
-I really, really wish I remembered who said the thing about the safety kid but I don't and Google wouldn't tell me. Sorry. For Google's failure and mine.  
-Zoe Shaw is probably my least favourite character on the show. My bitch meter goes straight to Red when she's mentioned. I'd apologize, but it'd be a lie.  
-Right-hand-seatbelt is a thing. It saves my mother's handbag on a regular basis.  
-At first this is going to confuse you. It might never stop.  
-This is _not_ the sequel to _Swim Until You Can't See Land_. Just in case that wasn't totally clear.

Okthxbai.

* * *

There are two little girls, dark brown pigtails and smiles that stretch from one ear to the other; a swing hanging from a tree, the branch thick and sturdy enough to hold their weight for years to come; a tricycle, too small for both of them by now, really, discarded on the lawn near the back porch.

He's pretty sure he's told them at least seven times to put it in the shed, but it's been lying there for weeks now, and it's become a matter of principle. Threats were made, hints about donating it to some charity, but then there's that idea that maybe three kids is a better number. Something someone said about a safety kid, in case one of them is smart, so the other one doesn't feel left out.

Which is stupid, really, but still. Three kids seems like an okay idea.

So maybe they should hang on to that tricycle after all. Just, he'd like it if they listened to him, just once, and put it away because he told them to. It's unnerving the way they seem to know that all his threats are empty, he'll never punish them in any way at all beyond maybe making them eat green beans. Which is mean enough, or so he's been told.

Possibly they get that from their mother. Whose instructions they follow to the letter for some reason he has never been able to fathom. She's limber enough that she should fit around their pinkies just as well as he does.

But maybe it's because their smiles are just like hers and it works better on him.

He'd kind of like a son, just to even the playing field a bit.

"Daddy, daddy! Push me on the swing!" It's not so much a request as just an assumption that he'll follow and do her bidding, tiny arms already pulling her up, one knee on the seat as she tries to keep her balance and almost, almost fails.

He smiles as he walks over, shaking his head at her complete lack of fear of anything in the world around her, lifts her up effortlessly, placing her on the swing. She's still learning how to pump her legs to keep the swing going, so he has to stay there the whole time, pushing gently at her back as she demands to go, "Higher, higher, all the way 'round, daddy," as if that's something he would actually be able to make happen. On a swing hanging from a branch on a tree with a lot of other branches on it. He grins to himself, remembering that thing about the safety kid, maybe they do need one, just for different reasons.

Maybe he could make the pitch for trying, anyway.

* * *

When they get inside dinner is already on the table. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It's so normal and everyday he wonders how it's even possible. He's dishing out food, trying to distribute peas evenly onto two plates.

They will be counted carefully, and the argument that six year old girls should eat more peas than four year old girls is not going to fly. He knows, he tried.

Brussels sprouts are easier to distribute but also infinitely harder to get them to eat.

"27, daddy," he is told, voice full of reproach. "She has 31." This demand for equal quantity vegetables is a two-way thing, she would never try to get away with eating less herself. That's _definitely_ something she gets from her mother.

He looks straight at her, shaking his head, to make sure she knows he thinks she's being silly. But smiling so she'll know he thinks it's fine. "Four peas coming up," he says scooping them carefully out of the pot and dropping them onto the pea-deficient plate.

"Thank you, daddy," and a kiss on the cheek for his efforts. He really doesn't mind about the peas at all.

Dinner talk is a who's who of the elementary school playground. These two girls are fighting, absolutely will not ever talk to each other ever again, for definite. Something about failing to share a snack at lunch, and there was a thing in Arts & Crafts as well, splashes of red paint on a purple giraffe. Sworn enemies, that's how it is now. Tears were shed, there's no going back. Not until tomorrow, anyway.

He doesn't remember navigating the playground being this hard, but maybe it's different for girls. Everything seems to matter so much more. _Everything_. The whole thing about Thursday being Pink Sock Day, it worries him a little that he gets it, how important it is, how he actually cares. There's a spare pair of bright pink six year old foot-sized socks in a drawer in the master bedroom, in case they miss laundry day. That's a secret, though.

Just, the complete despair on her face that one Thursday evening after wearing green socks to school and no one talking to her all through recess. It's possible that on that particular Thursday that whole thing about not hitting girls, and definitely not when you're a grown-up and they're a bunch of bratty six-year-olds, mattered very little to him. Girls are definitely meaner than boys, but he always sort of knew that.

The reward for eating 31 peas without complaint is half an hour of television. His life has never been this structured, or this chaotic.

Cartoons are different now. He's sure Wile E. Coyote was a lot more straightforward than Spongebob Squarepants. He really thought only stoners watched that. But apparently also _his_ kids, who think Patrick is just _amazing_ and who don't care that they have campfires in the middle of the ocean.

He wanted to explain to them why that just doesn't work, but was told pretty sternly to leave it alone and not be such a Squidward. Which the kids thought was just hilarious, and maybe it makes sense that they don't see him as any kind of authority figure at all.

Squidward _is_ the cooler talking, ocean-dwelling creature, though. If he has to pick one.

* * *

When he gets into bed that night he thinks there's possibly something missing, but he can't quite put his finger on it. Just, this hole that should be filled with- something.

The kids are asleep, tucked up in their beds, Winnie the Pooh and Peter Pan bedsheets pulled up to their ears, nightlight that no one will admit to needing glowing on the wall, a crescent moon with a smiley face on it. Because moons are happy. They get to stay up as late as they want and all that.

There are six throw pillows on the bedroom floor. If he was ever going to file for divorce, in the box where you say why you don't want to be married anymore, he'd quote those pillows. He thinks about that every time he has to take them off the bed at night, and then again when he has to put them back in the morning after invariably tripping over them on his way to the en suite. Then he thinks if the worst thing about his marriage, more than seven years in, is six throw pillows, it's pretty unlikely he'll ever need to write anything in that box.

He's pretty sure everyone just ticks the "Irreconcilable differences" box anyway. And also that she hates the pillows even more than he does, she just won't admit it, because she's the one who wanted them in the first place. So if it came to that he could probably convince her to just burn them.

In a huge bonfire under the sea, maybe.

He turns out the lamp on the bedside table, just staring into the darkness for a moment, before turning around and closing his eyes. Whatever's wrong with this life that looks so perfect he can't see it, lights on or off, but it's niggling at his mind even as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

He jerks awake, suddenly remembering something. "Andy!"

The room smells weird, not like his bedroom at all, and there's a beeping noise, steady like a heartbeat but fast and annoying, that wasn't there when he closed his eyes.

There's a pain in his gut, and in spite of the sudden awakening everything seems hazy, like the adrenaline isn't really getting all the way to where it's supposed to go.

There's a hand on his, squeezing, and his sister asking, "Bad dream?"

He turns his head to look at her in the semi-darkness. Right. Hospital. Gunshot. "No," he says, but he isn't really sure anymore. He's terrified, but even as the dream fades, gossamer strands slipping from his mind, he doesn't think it was bad, exactly. "I guess," he amends, because it must have been. He's shaking all over, his entire body vibrating with panic.

* * *

In the morning there's an argument in the hallway about medication, hushed voices, his sister the master of shouted whispers; the doctor master of not really giving a shit because he's the one with the degree in making people better.

Whatever, he just wants to go back to sleep.

There's something there he's supposed to be doing.

* * *

McNally shows up on day three, wearing a sheepish expression and a top he's never seen before. "SIU said not to see you until they talked to you."

Andy McNally, all about the rules. "That's fine, I'm all done." Not really, of course, but he's said his bit, all that's gonna happen if they come back is he'll repeat it.

"I mean, we were outside, just in case." She doesn't say just in case what. Just in case SIU wouldn't be talking to him ever, probably. She doesn't elaborate on the 'we' either, which maybe he would've liked.

There's a feeling in his stomach like something's wrong, and he's pretty sure it's not just the bullet hole.

He tries his hand at small-talk because she doesn't seem to want to talk about anything important, and he doesn't know what's important anymore, so that's fine by him. He draws the line at the weather, but it's hockey season, so okay.

He's missing her before she's even out the door, there's something he wants to remind her to do, but he doesn't know what so he keeps his mouth shut. Somewhere there's a pink gym bag on a kitchen floor that someone forgot.

* * *

It's almost too windy for kites, but it's Sunday so he takes them anyway.

He had to work all of Saturday late into the night, double homicide in Regent Park. Gangbangers don't do 9-5.

When he got home the kites were laid out on the dining room table, no doubt what he would be doing tomorrow.

Leftovers on a plate in the fridge for him, post-it on the microwave saying, "4mins, 80%. Love you. Goodnight." As if he doesn't know how to reheat food. He traced the smiley face in the corner with a finger, smiling back.

Barely ten minutes in one kite gets stuck in a tree. Pulling the line doesn't work and there's no way of getting to that branch by climbing. He shakes his head no, eyes all sympathy.

There's some chin wobbling and he's about to promise waffles and hot chocolate at home when a dog runs across the green and kites in trees are no longer interesting.

The drive home is all about puppies. He would've just said yes straight away, actually he's wondering why they don't already have one, because it seems like they should, but it's the sort of question where, "You need to ask your mother," feels like an appropriate answer. And also there's that tricycle rusting away on the lawn.

Something like that could seriously damage your chances of getting a pet, he suggests.

He opens the front door, pretending not to notice how they run around the house instead of going inside, walks to the living room and watches from the window as they push the bike across the grass and struggle to open the door to the shed.

The whole house smells like waffles and coming home.

* * *

Waking up in his own bed is strange. He thought it would make things feel more normal. His own sheets, familiar sounds, all that, but no.

He can't escape that did-I-leave-the-stove-on?-feeling.

He's beginning to suspect they put him back together wrong at the hospital. You're not supposed to wake up in your own bed and feel like you're in the wrong place.

* * *

He's in the museum for some reason. Woke up one morning during his sick leave with an urge to see the dinosaur exhibit. Friggin' dinosaurs. There's a joke in there about ageing and going to see your relatives but there's no one around to make it, so he doesn't need to pretend it's funny. It would've been, though. Not the joke, obviously, but still. What is this feeling and will it ever go away? Will he miss it if it does?

Recovery does not agree with him, he needs to be back at work.

He goes to sit on a bench with a view of a group of kids being lectured about Gordo the Barosaurus.

This one girl, crooked pigtails and mud stains all the way up her purple pants, tilts her head and scrunches up her face as if she's expecting the skeleton to copy her, like maybe she has a dog that does that.

He feels weirdly homesick watching her.

She turns around and catches him staring. For a moment she looks like she might be scared and he's already fumbling in the back of his mind for something non-creepy to tell her teacher, but then she sticks out her tongue at him and runs off, shoving one of the boys in her group roughly as she goes.

Her teacher is less amused than Sam by her antics, the museum guide looks like he wishes they'd just ban kids completely.

* * *

His first day back at work he shows up early for parade. Frank promised not to do a big thing, but said he wanted his face there, to let everyone know he was back. People clap, like getting shot was some big achievement, or maybe the not dying was, and he's remembering how much he actually hates attention.

He opens his mouth to crack a joke, but then McNally leans over, says something to Collins, and he closes it again.

She catches up with him after, on her way to the parking lot, Epstein waiting, keys dangling from his hand. "Welcome back." She's all smiles and dark ponytail swinging behind her as she hurries off trying to steal the keys off Epstein.

"See you," he calls after her, a 'tonight' almost out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Things have been strange with them since he got out of the hospital and he's pretty sure it's his fault.

He keeps wanting to say things to her that seem completely inappropriate but just feel like they would slide right off his tongue, no problem. So he tends to not really say anything at all.

* * *

He's running late for a parent-teacher interview. How he ended up being the one going is beyond him. He hated school, hardly ever went, what the hell is he supposed to be asking them? It's grade 1, a good start is important, all that. He should not be the one responsible for this.

But there he is, making the turn into the parking lot just a little too fast, no lollipop lady at 8pm but disapproving mothers out in droves. One steadying breath and out of the car. He deals with hardened criminals every day, elementary school teachers should be a breeze. Should be.

There are a few other dads there, some of them - mostly tailing behind their wives - seem supremely bored, but a few look even more haggard than he feels. Like maybe they feel like they're not the right parent for this, either, or maybe they're the only choice and they just have to make it work.

Two hours later he's decided, these things are not so bad, he'll even volunteer to do the next one. It's pretty okay, actually, when you have one of the good kids as it turns out.

The only problem now is the jokes he'll have to endure when he gets home, how he'll have to explain how _he_ got to have one of the good kids.

That and there's a _Real Housewives_ marathon on tonight.

* * *

He's been back at work for two weeks when he finds himself walking around a dingy apartment. Left it to Nash to calm down the hysterical mother of the baby whose bank-robbing dad just dropped in to say hello and pick up his kid on his way from Canada Trust to wherever the hell he thinks he's going after mowing down a security guard.

There's a name tag on one of the doors, 'Emma' spelled out by zoo animals carved from wood. The door is flimsy and the carpet inside is uglier than the one in the living room, if that's even possible. But at least this one doesn't have bloodstains on it, blood types mom and baby mixed up.

He stands in the doorway, frozen. On a bed that looks much too big but really isn't there's a girl, knees pulled up to her chin, just watching him out of eyes that are swollen from crying. She wipes her nose on her sleeve and he digs through his pocket for a handkerchief that was never there, frowning slightly.

"You okay?"

She looks at him for a long moment, sizing him up, and then she shakes her head quickly.

It's two steps to the bed, one deep squat to sit down and she's in his arms, bawling her eyes out. His hand stroking her hair as he's tells her lies about how everything will be fine, no one's gonna hurt her.

She's curled up in his lap and he's thinking he should be finding this awkward, but then she shifts, her too short jeans riding up one skinny leg. "Pink Sock Day, huh?"

Her head leaves his shoulder, tears momentarily paused as she gapes at him, nonplussed. "What's that?"

He smiles, shrugging the shoulder she's not hanging on. "Not a clue."

She pushes her body into his like she's angling for a hug, so he squeezes her tiny form, resting his chin on her head.

That's how McNally finds him five minutes later, and it's a toss up which one of them is more confused.

* * *

After work that day he drives to the pound. Just to look, he doesn't actually want a dog. He's doing a lot of things lately just to look.

He leaves half an hour later, sandy Labradoodle puppy in his arms, directions to the nearest pet shop on the back of a receipt for frozen pizzas.

When he gets home it occurs to him that maybe he should've picked a dog that was actually house trained.

Only after that the fact that he wasn't supposed to get a dog at all.

* * *

When he goes to work two days later he still hasn't picked a name, and he feels like he needs to and soon, because Stupid Goddamn Dog isn't something you can yell across the park, not even if you're laughing when you say it.

He tries Traci first, because she's right there in the office with him when he remembers, but she just looks at him as if he grew a second head.

By lunchtime word has travelled and people are coming up to him offering random suggestions.

Noelle asks him if he's saving Ninja for his firstborn and he frowns, trying to remember. He's pretty sure the answer's no, though.

* * *

When Oliver leaves the locker room he holds the door open for Andy to walk in. She sits down on the bench next to where Sam is changing, dropping her bag on the floor. They haven't done this in a while, invading each other's locker rooms.

They haven't done a lot of things in a while.

"A dog, Sam? Really?" She sounds amused. Like it's exactly the sort of thing she expects him to just let the kids have without checking with her.

He opens his mouth to tell her he _did_ say they should ask her. Then he closes it, shaking his head to clear the fog. What the hell? "Yeah," he agrees, too late not to look like a weirdo.

"Pick a name yet?" She's staring at the lockers like she's Clark Kent, trying see what's in them.

He starts digging through his locker looking for god-knows-what. "No."

"I would've thought Boo Radley," she says softly, x-ray vision boring into the back of his head.

There's a clank as his deodorant drops to the bottom of his locker. He glares at his hand like it betrayed him somehow, forgives it when it pinches the bridge of his nose, hard.

He turns, leaning against the lockers, hands firmly shoved into his pockets. He still doesn't really trust them. "Yeah, maybe."

"Are you going to the Penny, or?" She trails off, like she doesn't know what else he could be doing, but expects there to be something.

He shakes his head, cold metal pressing into his skull. "I have to go home and clean pee off everything."

She laughs and gets up, bag swinging from one indecisive hand.

"Need a lift?" He makes the offer, then remembers that 'everything' includes the floor of the passenger seat of his car, but she nods before he can take it back.

"So what does Boo Radley do all day while you're working? Besides pee on everything." She's got her legs pulled up under her, her bag in the backseat, nose scrunched up slightly against the smell.

So the dog's name is Boo Radley now. Okay.

"Doggie day care." Because apparently that's a thing people do. He told them no mani-pedi, no cutesy outfits. There's no way he's paying them to dress up his dog as Batman.

"So you have to go pick him up?"

He nods. "Penny or home?"

She grins, shaking her head, looking all excited. "Doggie day care."

* * *

Boo Radley, the Stupid Goddamn Dog, is not as stupid as he might look when he's busy peeing under the coffee table. He knows his owner, anyway, and Sam's almost embarrassed by the over-enthusiastic greeting.

McNally on the other hand is immediately enthralled. "Ohmigod-" one word, that's how much she means it. "-He's _adorable_!"

Which, yeah.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as the cute puppy type," she tells him, dog in her lap, tail wagging against the dashboard. He's pretty sure if she had a tail, it would be wagging, too.

"Yeah, well," he says. They told him at the pound it loved kids. He signed the paperwork wondering why that would make a difference.

Andy scoots out of the car in front of her building, leaving Boo Radley in her seat. She closes the door with a "'Night, sweetie," and he's halfway down the street before he realizes she wasn't talking to him.

* * *

There's a stack of gifts in colourful wrapping paper on the dining table, all set for breakfast.

Chocolate chip pancakes and cranberry juice.

Seven is an important birthday.

* * *

McNally shows up one Sunday, a bag of gourmet dog treats in her hand. He lets her in then goes back to the kitchen to finish doing the dishes. He's feeling tired and out of sorts like he hasn't slept for days. In reality he fell asleep in front of the television last night before the 10 o'clock news had even started, made his way to bed just before 2am.

"You made pancakes?" She's so surprised she even stops scratching behind Boo Radley's ear and the dog scoots around in her arms to get her attention. "Just for yourself?" There's a hint of insecurity there, like she thinks he might have had company.

"And Boo Radley."

"People are beginning to talk, y'know," she tells him, putting Boo Radley back on the tiled floor. She stays crouched down, lips forming an amused 'O' when the dog almost slips and narrowly avoids falling into his personalized water bowl.

He wipes his hands, turns to look down at her. "Oh, yeah?"

"Traci said you were checking out _dolls_ at a crime scene last week."

There was one, just perfect for an almost five-year-old who loves Peter Pan.

He shrugs, not really sure what to say. He doesn't know any five-year-olds. Peter Pan lovers or otherwise. Either way, Nash should be paying more attention to her job and a little less attention to him.

"Ex-girlfriend come out of the woodwork with a kid or something?" She sounds like she's mostly joking. Mostly.

"Or something," he agrees, sitting down on the floor next to her.

Boo Radley scurries over, wiping a wet snout on the leg of his jeans and wagging his tail. "Thanks, buddy."

"Just, people are worried, is all," she says, her nails tapping on the floor, which is very fascinating if you're a dog, apparently. But not as fascinating as the treat she's hiding in her other hand.

"People are _worried_?" he repeats. He knew people were amused, for sure. Oliver has been making mid-life crisis jokes for a while. The words 'biological clock' came up, which was just one step too far across the line. A dog is cheaper than a cabin, after all.

That shut him up for a couple of days.

"Well," she explains. "You've been a bit... strange."

There's really no way to disagree with _that_. "I haven't been sleeping too well," he admits.

"Nightmares?" Her eyes are all sympathy and caring, like she wants to help him but doesn't know how.

"Not really. Maybe." Whatever he's dreaming about, it's not making him want to break out in song when he wakes up, that's for sure.

What it does do is make him want to pull her close and stroke her hair and tell her they have about half an hour before Oliver's dropping off the girls and they should be making the most of it.

Oliver doesn't have his kids this weekend, though, so that doesn't really make sense. On any level.

"I'll be fine," he assures her, busying his hands with Boo Radley's collar. It's about time for his walk.

Park on Sundays.

He wants to go back to bed.

* * *

There's a dog licking his face, waking him up.

And then he wakes up to a dog licking his face. His bed feels bigger. Emptier. The room is quieter than it should be.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, pulling on a pair of jeans on his way to the bathroom.

Walk the dog, go to work, go home, walk the dog, go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

* * *

Boo Radley loves kids almost as much as kids love Boo Radley, so this Saturday night the Shaw girls and Celery have taken charge of an over-excited not-quite-a-puppy-anymore and sent the two of them to the Penny.

They're on their first pint when Oliver says thank you for the loan of the dog and he really hopes this'll help Izzie and Celery get along. Teenage girls generally do not take kindly to daddy's new, young girlfriend.

Sam just nods, pretends he knew he was the one doing the favour.

They're on their second pint when Oliver asks why he decided to get the dog, really, and tells him not to give some smart-ass reply.

He doesn't know, so that's what he says. Maybe Andy was right, people are worried. "I just felt like getting a dog, I guess."

"So you'll admit this is sort of like a midlife crisis type thing?" Oliver is waving at the bartender, silently demanding tequila.

Sam thinks he'll be regretting that tomorrow when he's woken up at 7 by a kid wanting food, now, getupgetupthankyouplease. He has no idea how late the Shaw girls sleep, it never came up. "I'll admit nothing."

They're on their third pint when McNally and Diaz show up, shiny faces straight from the barn. They're aboard Oliver's tequila train in no seconds flat and they move the party from the bar to one of the tables, Andy balancing a tray of shots like she's undercover as a cocktail waitress.

Diaz is entertaining everyone with a story about running down a perp on Dundas Square, almost knocking over a street performer juggling lit torches. When he mentions the kids applauding him as he catches a torch and throws it back like it's part of the show, Sam catches Andy watching him.

He suggests another round of tequila.

They're four pints and just as many shots in when Oliver announces that he loves his new witch girlfriend and he would've liked his ex-wife not to be such a bitch about it.

Andy's patting his arm and nodding with thinly veiled amusement like it's a spiel she's heard before and Diaz goes to get another round of beer.

When Oliver makes his way to the men's room, Sam asks about it, like he and Andy are two people who regularly discuss their friends' love lives.

She shrugs like she thinks they are, too. "I think he's mostly bothered because of the kids. Zoe's not exactly diplomatic."

Sam nods, wondering how she's so well-informed and he's not but then Diaz is back with three beers and a glass of water.

Andy laughs her approval and he shrugs, looking pleased and a little bit nervous, like maybe deciding when senior officers have had enough is overstepping the line. She puts the water in front of Sam and Diaz' eyes go wide and terrified.

Sam grins and shakes his head. A year ago this guy was a dad, now he's like a first day rookie all over again. "I think that was for Oliver," he suggests and Diaz relaxes.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I mean, he has the kids this weekend, so."

Sam finishes his beer in silence and then does another shot of tequila with Andy because she has that look on her face like she's about to say something serious, and he's pretty sure it's not his turn to get up and make breakfast for the kids.

Then he quickly decides it's time to put Oliver in a taxi and walks home. It's warm enough not to need gloves anymore and he could use some fresh air.

* * *

When he leaves the house the next day to go pick up Boo Radley, Andy is leaning against his truck looking for all the world like she's waiting for him.

"You disappeared pretty quickly last night." Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and she's looking at him like she's trying to work out a riddle.

"Just tired."

"You're tired a lot."

He doesn't argue with her, just walks around the car and gets in. She hops in the passenger seat like he asked her to do it. "Are you, like, depressed or something?"

He laughs, not sure if it's her tone or the words she's come up with that are funny. Possibly both. "No, McNally. I am not depressed."

He points the truck in the direction of Oliver's place going on autopilot.

"So then what is it?"

It's the way his right hand feels cold because she's not holding it, it's the way there's no booster seat in the back of his truck and no toys in the compartment between the seats. Except, he has no idea what it is. All he knows is he wakes up exhausted and missing her like he hasn't seen her for months and she isn't there.

She's never there.

Sam on autopilot isn't what it used to be and he almost cruises through a red light, has to slam the brakes. His hand shoots out, 100% reflex, holding her back against the seat like she might fly through the windscreen if he didn't stop her.

110% awkward.

"Huh." She's staring at his hand, way too close to her chest for friendship, and he pulls it away like she's on fire.

"Shit. Sorry."

"No," she says, and then she's shaking her head and laughing like it's the funniest thing that ever happened. "My mom used to do that when I was a kid."

He's glad she's finding the whole thing so hilarious, but he's still trying to figure out what the hell happened.

"She did it last month, this moron on the QEW changed lanes without looking. She said it's a habit. Like, something parents do." No mention of the decade and a half Claire McNally spent _not_ being a mother.

"Yeah," he agrees. "My mom used to do it, too."

"Sam." Her voice all serious again, her eyes probing. "You're not a parent, though." It sounds a little bit like a question.

His eyes check the rear-view mirror, empty backseat behind them. "No. I'm not."

They pull up in front of the house Oliver is renting, post-marriage bliss. Weird herbs growing in the garden, something smelly hung on the front porch to dry. The whole street knows, here be witches.

Oliver comes out, closing the door on Boo Radley, eyes wide when McNally hops out of the truck, slow smile like he knows what's up. Sam would like to buy a vowel, please.

"That dog, like a fuckin' charm," Oliver announces. "Zoe'd never let them have a pet. Thinks they're too messy. I could hear them pestering her as they drove off." He's laughing like that made his year.

They sneak in the door and Boo Radley's trying to jump into Sam's arms before he's even out of his jacket.

"Someone missed you," Celery tells him.

Yeah. Someone did.

"The girls took him for a walk before they left." Oliver holds up the coffee pot. Sam looks at Andy, she nods.

Four mugs from the cabinet, sugar, creamer, biscuits that look harmless enough, but who knows. Here be witches. Oliver suddenly a mind reader, waggling his eyebrows as he chews. "Delicious."

"The girls made them last night." Celery washes her hands and sits down. "They won't make you grow horns."

"That's too bad," McNally says, popping one in her mouth. "Horns could work for you." Her fingers in his hair, nails dragging across his scalp where horns would've appeared. If they had been that kind of biscuits. Her fingers are warm; soft and familiar.

"So, Sam saved my life today." She's blowing on her coffee, eyes on the biscuits. The Shaw girls know their way around vanilla.

He nudges Boo Radley under the table. Stupid Goddamn Dog, pee on something, will you?

Oliver's eyebrows are trying to catch up with his receding hairline, Celery looks confused but impressed.

"Right-hand-seatbelt," McNally explains, serious as anything.

Three long seconds from when the words leave her mouth to when Oliver really, properly hears them and spits coffee all over the biscuits. Waving a hand in apology, laughing too hard to speak.

"This dog is precious cargo," Sam says, head under the table. Why the hell didn't he think of that when it happened?

He jumps in his seat when Andy pinches his thigh, banging his head on the table.

He turns his head to look at her and she's mock-scowling. Guess who's doing the dishes tonight.

He rubs his eyes, stifling a yawn, sits up.

As they head out the door Oliver claps his back, all silent approval. McNally is watching Celery dig through a cupboard. Sam looks at him blankly.

"Gonna put a spell on someone?" He nods towards the bag of tea leaves in her hand, turns the key and revs up the truck. One-handed wave and they're off. Like this is a thing they do, visiting friends on the weekend.

"Are you worried?" She's teasing him, but he is kind of. He's not sure why, though. Oliver first met Celery when she did a love spell for someone. "Mom has a cold."

Ah. "So where to?" He still doesn't know why she's even in the truck with him.

She turns her head to Boo Radley in the backseat. "I dunno. Park? Wanna go for a walk?"

The truck is not big enough to contain the excitement of a puppy with a whole backseat to himself.

* * *

"This is nice," she tells him, throwing the ball he got out of the trunk in the parking lot.

Boo Radley goes chasing the ball across the grass like it's made of treats. "Yeah." Park on Sundays. He looks around him, not sure what for.

"So, what's up, McNally?"

She stretches her neck to see Boo Radley get the ball. "Okay, you can't tell anyone this." Her voice all girly-secret. "But I'm kind of in love with your dog."

"All the ladies are," he agrees.

A Cocker Spaniel comes to sniff his leg, owner catching up all out of breath. "Hello, Samuel."

"Murtle," he says, smiling, pointed stare at McNally, biting her lip to keep in the laughter. He bends down, pets the dog on the head. "Colonel."

"Come on, Colonel. We're running late. _Murder, She Wrote_ is in 20 minutes." And they're off. When you're 67 you don't do DVRs, you do brisk walks and full names.

"I see what you mean." McNally no longer trying to hold it in. "She was all over you."

She's close enough that he can push her, so he does. She pushes back, nudging him with her shoulder and then she stays there, sticking like Velcro.

Park on Sundays. Yeah.

* * *

The thing about having two girls, aged five and seven, is that it's all about shades of pink. After a long week of negotiating and bargaining – lamp shades and tiny armchairs have come up – he only has to do one wall.

They're camped out in the living room, airbeds in an indoor tent blocking the view of the TV. They'd probably be fine if he never finished, toys spread all over the carpet, Barbie's pink pumps making his eyes water when he steps on them.

It's just for one night, though. The can says non-toxic, but still.

They fall asleep, one head and two small feet sticking out of the opening of the tent. One dog tail wagging against the nylon wall.

He falls asleep on the couch, smiling, waiting, paperback copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ falling to the floor.

* * *

No one expected the perp to still be there, least of all Sam. Before anyone else knows what happened the kid's in handcuffs, McNally leaning against the wall, hand pressed against her forehead to stop the blood flowing into her eye, swearing like a sailor under her breath.

Nobody really cares about the punk in cuffs moaning about police brutality. It's not his blood all over the steel bed frame.

Sam's willing to bet her pride's hurt worse than her head, but when he gently pulls her hand away the cut looks deep enough to need stitches.

"Hospital," he tells her and she nods, groggily enough that he's beginning to worry if she has a concussion.

He doesn't even really stop to discuss it, just lets Nash take over the scene and nods his head to indicate that Peck and Epstein should bring the guy in and then he leads her to his car. Collins watches them leave from the doorway. He still doesn't know what the story is there, pretty sure there isn't one anymore, though.

There's a towel in a bag in the backseat. He leans back to grab it for her and she presses it against her forehead. "You bleed on the seat, you clean it up," he tells her, mock-serious.

"Nice."

"I try," he agrees. She snorts, amused.

* * *

The good thing about uniforms is they mean you get to skip the queue at the ER. Knowing half the EMTs helps, too, of course.

McNally's all for waiting her turn, but he points out that they do have a murder to solve. A nurse leads her to a bed, promising that a doctor will be there shortly.

He's handed a clipboard with a form, pen hanging from it by a string. He starts filling it out and then realizes he doesn't actually know the answer to half the questions on there, insurance policy number and whatnot.

Doesn't even know who her emergency contact is these days. His name is already there, confident uppercase letters that are definitely his handwriting.

He goes to the front desk and asks for a new form, sneaks behind the curtain surrounding her bed and hands the clipboard to her.

When she gives it back, all done like a good girl, her father's name has replaced his. He wipes at it with a finger but the ink stays put.

* * *

They take off with a verdict of slight concussion, probably shouldn't be alone tonight just in case, and four even stitches above her left eyebrow.

She picks up her phone to call Traci, but he nudges it away from her ear. "Boo Radley'll look after you."

She points out that they don't allow pets in her building and he looks at her like they gave her the wrong pills for the pain.

Turns out they _don't_ have a murder to solve: When they get to the barn Traci's all done, signed confession and everything. Drugs are expensive, easily worth a human life if you need them enough. The only thing left to do is decide if they should be adding Resisting Arrest or Assaulting an Officer to the Murder charge. Did he hit her first, or?

McNally looks like she doesn't care either way, she'd much rather just have a chance to hit him back. Truth be told, Sam wouldn't mind having a go himself but he keeps his mouth shut.

* * *

Boo Radley is an affectionate but sloppy nurse, seems to think his tongue has healing powers, so Sam gets started on dinner. McNally getting up from the floor, nose shiny, all better now thanks, Boo Radley, says she'll make dinner, it's only fair.

He shrugs, reminds her, "No hollandaise," like it's a joke they've been doing for years. She looks at him like he asked how planes stay up. He's been meaning to Google that, actually. It seems like the sort of question he ought to have an answer for. So he leaves her alone in the kitchen before he can ask if there's soccer practice tomorrow.

She doesn't make hollandaise. They eat chicken stir-fry in front of the TV: Sam was going to set the table properly, but then he took out four plates, changed his mind and put them back.

Somewhere in his mind a line is getting blurred.

* * *

He does the dishes and when he comes back she's curled up on the couch, teasing Boo Radley with a squeaky toy. "Is he allowed on here?" She looks guilty, but then again not really.

"As if I'd be able to stop him. He pretty much does what he wants." Except chew up shoes. There's a limit. Sterns words were had that evening.

"Not much of a disciplinarian, huh?" She sounds surprised, like she expected him to be all, "Bed at 7:30, no playtime until you've cleaned your room."

"No, that's your job," he tells her, pulling Boo Radley's tail and then forgetting to let go when he realizes what he just said.

Boo Radley pulls free and grabs the stuffed moose from her still hand, easiest victory ever.

"I mean," he begins, but he's not exactly sure _what_ he meant, so he stops.

"Boo Radley needs to be taught some manners?" she suggests.

"Yeah." He's pretty sure that wasn't it.

* * *

He's changing the sheets on the bed for her while she leans on the door frame telling him he doesn't need to. He's trying hard not to think about the last time she was in this room. Judging from the look on her face she's probably doing the same thing.

There's not a single throw pillow in sight.

He picks up a pillow and a blanket and heads for the couch, feeling vaguely like he's being mock-punished for something and she'll let him back in in ten minutes.

No, though.

* * *

The tent is back in the front hall closet, two girls tucked up in their beds, heads against a bright pink wall that actually looks better than he thought it would. But still _very_ pink.

_Beverly Hills Cop II_ is on TV, and he's trying to distract himself from the fact that earlier today he booked a 17-year-old for murder and right now there's a UC operation going on, two female cops in a nightclub trying to bust a kingpin.

Empty coffee mug on the hardwood countertop.

Eddie Murphy's laugh mingles with sirens like a familiar lullaby and he nods off, waking up two hours later to infomercials and the front door being closed, hallway lights coming on.

"Did you get him?"

She's in the doorway, backlit, dress too short for his sleep-addled brain. "We always get them." The light from the TV reflected in her teeth when she smiles.

"Is that a fact?" She's standing in front of him and he tugs on the tight-fitting skirt of her dress, trying to pull it down a bit. They've been married for eight years, he shouldn't have to be thinking about hockey scores right now.

Well, eight years minus two weeks and a long weekend in Montreal she doesn't know about yet. Spare bedroom all ready for the girls in St. Catherines, aunt who just can't wait to spoil them rotten.

She swats his hand away like she doesn't mean it, so he doesn't bother pointing out that that wasn't really what he was doing.

"How are the girls?" She kneels down, kisses him quickly.

"Asleep in their beds." Like that's normal. Like normal for him isn't them sprawled out on the living room floor, passed out halfway through changing into their pyjamas just before ten.

Her eyebrows shoot up, images of scepticism. "When?"

"7.30." Eyebrows shouldn't be able to go that high, he's sure it isn't normal. "8.25."

"Still impressive," she acknowledges.

"I'm an impressive guy." That gets a laugh, which he really doesn't feel it warranted.

"So I'm wondering-" She's not. What she's doing is trailing his hairline with her index finger, slowly, then down by his ear and across his jawline. "What an impressive guy like you could do to entertain me at 3am when I'm all pumped up from work and our kids are actually sleeping in their beds for once."

Her finger dips into his mouth like she has a few ideas in case he needs help.

He nibbles on her finger. "I was actually sleeping, so..." Shrugging lying down is not an easy feat, but he gets the point across.

She's smiling, all 'challenge accepted.'

"I missed you, Andy." He did. It's like he hasn't seen her for months. He knows she was there this morning, but somehow it feels like much longer than that. His hand in her hair, familiar curve of her neck.

"Well, I'm here now." She seems supremely unconcerned with what he's saying, one hand sneaking under his t-shirt, her lips descending on his.

He closes his eyes, leans into the kiss. There's absolutely nothing more he needs from the world right now.

* * *

He opens his eyes. Andy's sitting cross-legged on the floor, head tilted to one side, amused smile on her lips, dog cuddled up in her lap. "I think you might've been dreaming."

His hand still tangled in her hair.

No infomercials, no children sleeping upstairs. No undercover outfit: tank top and pyjama bottoms. He doesn't even remember the last time he watched _Beverly Hills Cop II_.

His hand still tangled in her hair.

Smile transformed to a frown, brown eyes confused and worried.

His hand still tangled in her hair.

Still.

"I missed you." He feels like maybe he's repeating himself, or maybe he shouldn't be saying this at all.

"I was here the whole time."

He shakes his head. "You were never there." That's definitely true, he just doesn't know where 'there' is.

She shakes her head back, like a mirror, soft moves like she doesn't mind his hand where it is. "What are you talking about, Sam?"

He opens his mouth to tell her he doesn't know, but then there it is: Two girls with dark pigtails and bright smiles, pancake breakfasts and _Spongebob Squarepants_, swing in a tree in the backyard. Married life. And she was never there, always hovering on the edge of everything, never in his line of vision. "Just a weird dream."

"About me?" One part amusement, two parts pleased.

His fingers scratch lightly at the back of her head, thumb grazing the edge of the hospital issue band-aid on her forehead. "No, you were hardly in it at all." Voice teasing, saving his regrets for somewhere more private.

More private than his living room at 3am.

Her hand covering his, her hair exactly as soft as he remembers. "You missed me, though?"

Boo Radley slumps to the floor, asleep. Sam on the couch, wide awake for the first time in months. "Yeah." Lying doesn't seem like an option right now. Doesn't seem like something he wants to do.

"So in your dreams, I'm not there and you miss me." Like she's confirming a bullshit story from a witness. "And in reality I'm right here and you're just tired all the time."

"Yeah." There's a tricycle in a shed. Indoor tent in a hallway closet. Perfect life, except she wasn't there.

She shakes her head with more force, her hand leaving his, tracing the line of his jaw. His fingers still laced through her hair, not letting go. "That's kinda dumb."

"Yeah." Like that's the only word he knows right now.

"So what was the dream about?"

Head shaking against the pillow, her index finger on his chin. How would he ever explain?

"Was it dirty?" More amused than appalled, teasing most of all, as if she wouldn't _really_ mind.

He grins. "Well, no. You woke me up with your staring."

Just the hint of an eye-roll.

"We were having dinner." He remembers, but he doesn't: Something that didn't happen, and besides it was a long time ago. "And I didn't even realize you weren't there."

She pulls a face. "That's nice."

His hand in her hair tightens its grip. Just a little. He remembers the waking up. "It wasn't."

She smiles, teeth barely visible in the darkened room. "You didn't look like it was a bad dream."

"This wasn't tonight. Tonight you were there. You were never there before."

"I told you, Sam." Her fingers skate across his stubble, land in his hair, her thumb warm against his ear. "I've been here the whole time."

There's a dog on a green, running to catch a ball. Andy standing next to him, collar up against the chill. Park on Sundays. "You have, haven't you?"

Warm eyes getting closer, his hand in her hair, leading the way.

"You get that you're not dreaming anymore, right?" Her eyebrows raised, tongue licking her lips.

"If this was a dream, you'd be quieter."

Her lips on his. Warm and soft. Real.

He closes his eyes, leans into the kiss. There's absolutely nothing more he needs from the world right now.

* * *

He turns off the light in the bathroom and walks to the bed, pulling off his t-shirt.

"I'm thinking I'd like a son," he says. "I think I'd be better at toy cars than Tinkerbell dolls."

Her eyes widen with shock and then she laughs. "I'm thinking I'd like to get this wedding out of the way before I start shopping for maternity clothes."

_End_

_Yeah, so this is absolutely, definitely the closest I will get to writing them married with children._


End file.
